More and more my life becomes its story. This happens to humans; other creatures’ lives are comprised of facts, but no superimposed narrative. Stories are about choices: left or right, fast or slow, to be or not to be. Protagonists of stories envision alternatives. Dog-pal Henry considers this nonsense. He does whatever makes sense. If perplexed by the unexpected, he decides instantly, without brooding or hindsight. His life is no story with its tensions, only facts.

Humans see their span as adventures with beginnings, middles, ends, meaning. Our grammar supplies a first-person singular, which indicates agency, responsibility. Henry never thinks I – or you – only us and them. The more vivid one’s imagination, the more suspenseful one’s tale. Durable autobiographies are composed by big brains. Dullards dismiss their days as “nothing much.”

Figuring out my life’s story has been my obsession since age sixteen. That was when my dad died, who knew all the answers. On his railing deathbed, his answers failed him, leaving his son a blank book of instructions. The what, how, when, and why of my being I had to dope out on my own. It’s a daunting challenge, making one’s way without a reliable manual. Trial and error helped, prior makers helped, thinking helped. Eventually, my life took shape. I married, had kids and career, got buffeted, crashed, recovered, found love, purpose, God. By scribbling my story, I encountered its shape. Now, near its conclusion, I’m imprisoned by the story I’ve imagined. In theory, I could bolt from my narrative, become someone startling, but why? I like my story, its characters, themes, episodes, dramatic arc, moral, and my chance of a happy ending. Why mess with success?

The downside of contentedness is loss of suspense. Contentment makes for listless plots. I’d never claim I have life figured out – the turpitude of our species never ceases to amaze – but I have my life figured out to my satisfaction. I know why I’m here, what matters to me, and how I want to spend my remaining time. I am eager in the morning (albeit crestfallen at dusk).

Happy then, happier than I ever dreamed of being, yet (paradoxically) I miss the excitement of my old despair, when my life felt like a life-or-death struggle, its outcome in doubt. I miss the eruptions of revelation which – momentarily – seemed to redeem the time. I chafe for the old fury, wanderlust, refusal to acquiesce. I dread my evolution into a smug old blob.

Here’s where writing comes to my rescue. I can’t risk my limbs, they’re too brittle, but I can my lingo. I can harry my intellect out of its comfort zone into new unknowns. I can try new ways of saying. “Old men,” wrote T.S. Eliot (in person a buttoned-up guy),

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published ought to be explorersHere and there does not matterWe must be still and still movingInto another intensityFor a further union, a deeper communionThrough the dark cold and empty desolation.

I wish for myself at each new beginning – for “each venture,” as Eliot notes,

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedIs a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulateWith shabby equipment always deteriorating –

a continuing storm of tears and assault of doubt; to never proclaim I know or decree what’s right; never let my comfort inure me to the world’s pain; never conclude. Success is failure if it imagines itself success.

Our consumer culture’s image of a happy retirement is indolence and idiocy, gated communities and endless, deteriorating golf. I recoil in horror. Let me brave storms as stiff as I can bear. Let me never be sure.